Die Happy Page 7

  ‘Glad to hear it son. Remember that and don’t sell too cheap. Want you to have a good mark-up. Don’t want you to become the sort of dealer who has to sell to feed his habit. They don’t last long, that sort.’

  It was the nearest thing to advice he ever offered. He looked unhurriedly round at the high wall between them and the outside world, at the cloud scudding across the small patch of sky above them, at the hostelry with its muted noises which they must both re-enter. ‘Usual arrangement, son. You go first. I follow in two minutes, unless I hear anything to suggest I shouldn’t do that.’

  Sam Hilton didn’t hesitate. He thrust his new supplies into the pockets of his anorak and slipped without a backwards glance through the door and back into the busy hostelry. The pint and the coldness of the yard were insistent in his bladder. He needed urgently to turn into the gents and discharge its contents into one of the urinals. But he needed even more urgently to be away, to be out of the pub into the darkness outside, and then back to the street in the centre of the city where he had parked the old Focus.

  Thirty minutes later, he was back in his flat, peeing at last for what was surely the longest ever time into the lavatory bowl, groaning the exquisite pleasure of his relief. The profits when he sold this stuff on would be good, even ridiculous: almost a forty percent mark-up on even the excessive rates he was sure he had paid. And tomorrow, or at least on the next day or the day after that, the strain of acquiring his supplies would not seem so great.

  But at this moment the price of being a poet seemed almost too much to bear.

  SIX

  Christine Lambert was surprised by the phone call. The caller wasn’t unexpected; when you were on committees, it was quite usual for the chairperson to ring you up about committee business. What surprised her was that Marjorie Dooks sounded uncertain, even vulnerable; she had never encountered that before.

  ‘Mrs Lambert? Are you on your own, Christine? Something has come up. I don’t quite know what I should do about it. I’d welcome your advice.’

  ‘Of course. I’m happy to say what I think, if you believe it will be any help.’

  ‘Thank you. Not on the phone, though. Could I come round and see you? I think that would be better than you coming here. During the day. Today, if possible.’

  The staccato phrases were fired off as if Marjorie was thinking on her feet. That was a shock to Christine Lambert, who was used to the formidable Mrs Dooks being so measured and prepared.

  ‘I’ll be happy to give you whatever help I can. Perhaps I should say that although my husband hasn’t agreed to appear on the platform with David Knight yet, I’m fairly confident that—’

  ‘What? Oh, it’s not about that. It’s something quite different, and rather odd.’

  Christine was intrigued. It must be something very odd indeed, to throw the formidable Marjorie Dooks so completely out of her stride. ‘I have to go out this morning. Would three this afternoon be all right for you?’

  ‘That would suit me admirably. You – you will be alone, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes. We won’t be disturbed.’

  Christine put down the phone and stared at it thoughtfully for a moment. Intriguing. What could be so private that Marjorie didn’t want John Lambert around when it was discussed?

  She took her friend for her hospital appointment as arranged, then drove home and snatched a quick sandwich lunch. She left herself time to vacuum and plump the cushions in the sitting room before her visitor arrived. Marjorie Dooks wasn’t the sort of woman you ushered into an untidy room. She was flicking a duster over the top of the television when the lady’s silver Peugeot swung into her drive.

  Marjorie surged through the politenesses of a first visit quickly and abstractedly, as though they were some tiresome rites that had to be observed as a prelude to genuine communication. Christine made a pot of tea, then watched her visitor refuse biscuits and sip abstractedly at her cup, as if it were just another distraction set in front of her to prevent her coming to the point of her visit. ‘Something very odd has happened,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘Really? And what is that?’

  Mrs Dooks looked automatically around the room, as if she thought some hidden listener was there to be discovered. ‘I’ve had a strange letter. I’ve never received anything like it before.’

  ‘What sort of letter, Marjorie?’ Christine Lambert found herself dropping into a role she had never expected, that of comforter and counsellor to this formidable but now clearly shaken woman.

  ‘You’ll probably tell me not to be such a fool and to stop over-reacting and go away and get on with my life. Which would be a comfort really.’ Marjorie tried a self-deprecating laugh and found herself disturbingly close to tears.

  It was her friend who did the smiling. ‘Perhaps if you told me what was in the letter it would help us both.’

  ‘Sorry! I’m not usually like this. Well, I’ve had a note threatening me with violence. Threatening to kill me, in fact.’

  ‘Good heavens! Have you brought it with you?’

  ‘No. I shredded it and threw it away. I was determined not to take it seriously, so I treated it with contempt.’

  ‘And now you think you were rather too hasty.’

  Marjorie looked as uncomfortable as she felt. ‘I don’t know what I feel, and I’m not used to that. Bloody stupid, I suppose. I just thought I’d like to discuss it with someone. You drew the short straw, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I shall take that as a compliment. I’m afraid I haven’t met your husband. Does he know about this?’

  ‘No. We – we haven’t been very close, over the last year. I suppose I thought James would just say that it served me right for getting myself so heavily involved with local affairs. He doesn’t approve of that.’

  Christine wanted to tell her that they weren’t old friends, weren’t even close enough to be talking like this. Her only contact with Marjorie was through a committee, and though she’d quickly come to like and respect her, she didn’t want to begin exchanging secrets with her. She said awkwardly, ‘I don’t want to pry into your private life, but shouldn’t you have discussed this with your husband before anyone else?’

  Marjorie didn’t answer her directly. She said slowly, ‘I suppose like many people who’ve led a busy public life, I’ve never developed much of a private one. I haven’t got close friends. To tell you the truth, I haven’t in the past felt any great need for them. I didn’t show the thing to James because he wouldn’t have been any use to me.’

  Christine suddenly felt very sorry for this woman, who normally exuded confidence and certainty. Twenty years ago, when John and she had been far apart, she had sometimes felt that he too would be no use to her in a personal crisis. It was the children who had drawn them together as the years passed. John had always been good with the girls, had sometimes been able to see things she had not seen for herself. Marjorie Dooks had no children. Christine said, ‘When did this message arrive?’

  ‘The day before yesterday. I’d been to a council meeting. It was delivered whilst there was no one in the house. James was home from work before I came in. He brought it into the house but it was addressed to me. I opened it on my own and didn’t tell him what was in it.’

  ‘But didn’t he ask you about it?’

  ‘No. I think he’s forgotten all about it. He’s very much concerned with his own affairs.’

  It was a brisk, bleak summary of the event and of her own and her husband’s reactions. Once she had been asked to deliver facts, she was almost back in her normal efficient mode.

  Christine wondered if Marjorie suspected that it might have been her husband who had perpetrated this strange thing. As she did not know her very well and him not at all, she had no idea whether this was altogether too fanciful an idea. She felt herself being drawn further into something she did not wish to be her concern as she said reluctantly, ‘What exactly did this letter say?’

  Marjorie smiled wanly. ‘Not much. It was short and me
lodramatic. It said that I should resign from the literature festival committee unless I wished to be killed. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it, when you hear it stated baldly like that?’

  ‘It does. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t like to receive anything like that.’

  ‘That’s something I had at the back of my mind. You haven’t received anything like this yourself?’

  ‘No. I expect you’d feel better if I had.’

  ‘I suppose I would, if I’m honest. It would feel less personal and I would feel in less danger if I felt some lunatic was firing notes off at all and sundry. Sorry about that.’

  Christine said firmly, ‘Don’t be. I’m sure anyone would feel like that. The question is, what are we going to do about it?’ It felt very strange that this normally assured and confident woman should be depending now on her for guidance.

  Marjorie felt an enormous relief in just having spoken about it, in having confessed her fear and vulnerability to another human being. ‘I shouldn’t have shredded it, should I?’

  ‘Probably not. But it’s no use our worrying about that now.’

  Marjorie found the simple fact that she’d said ‘us’ rather than ‘you’ massively comforting. ‘I expect I was just trying to convince myself that it was a trivial thing, not something serious. What do you think I should do now?’

  Christine frowned. ‘I think we’ve got to let the police know about it. It’s probably just a trivial, silly prank, as you thought it was when you shredded the letter, but it should be treated as serious until we know the facts.’

  She expected an argument. It was evidence of how shaken her visitor was that she said only, ‘I don’t think you should bother your husband with this. It’s way below his level. And it would expose me to him as a silly woman, who can’t even be sensible enough to retain the evidence.’

  ‘John isn’t stupid. What he’d see is a competent woman suddenly exposed to an anonymous and alarming threat to her life, to a level of malice she’s never had to contend with before. That’s a frightening situation for anyone.’

  ‘All the same, I wouldn’t want to be seen to be receiving special treatment. If you think this has to be reported, I’d prefer to go through the proper channels, in that phrase beloved of Civil Service mandarins. I think I should just go into the police station at Oldford and tell them what’s happened. If that means I deal with PC Plod, then so be it.’

  ‘I’m no expert on police procedures, but I think this would be a CID matter. I take your point that you don’t want special treatment. However, I think you should report it as you suggest without further delay.’

  Christine went out to the car with Marjorie. The daffodils were over, and she picked a few dead flower heads off them as her friend reversed out of the drive. Perhaps she hoped the resumption of dull everyday tasks could convince her departing visitor that the abnormal was really quite normal. She decided that she would have a quiet word with John about this tonight, despite Marjorie’s understandable reservations.

  She did not know that her decision would be overtaken by other events.

  ‘I’ve got the stuff you wanted.’ Sam Hilton was surprised how breathy and dramatic he sounded, when he had meant to be businesslike and impersonal. You needed to be more relaxed and in control, when you were selling.

  ‘I told you not to ring me at work.’

  The voice was younger and more nervous on the phone than the man he remembered. That gave Sam confidence. ‘You also told me not to ring you at home. I had to let you know somehow that the goods had arrived.’

  ‘You could have sent a message to my computer at home. I gave you the e-mail address.’

  ‘I don’t put things in writing. Rule of the game, Paul.’

  ‘All right. I’ll meet you at the usual spot. The place where I ordered the stuff. After work tonight. Six fifteen.’

  You didn’t let the punters dictate the terms. ‘No. The back room at The White Hart. And make it nine thirty. I don’t care to operate in daylight.’

  ‘All right. And – and I might be able to take more coke, next time.’

  ‘Got friends who want the best, have you?’ Sam smiled at the phone, taking his time, relishing the feeling of power this gave him. ‘Good idea to get a little circle organized. Put ten per cent on my price, you can end up getting your own stuff for nothing.’ This was the way you built up a dealer network and increased your sales, but he wasn’t going to tell the young solicitor that. Let him get in deeper, let him do your work for you. ‘I can supply all you need, and you know the quality’s right.’

  ‘Yes. And if I can increase my order, I’d expect to get a better deal. Perhaps we could—’

  ‘Nine thirty, then. Don’t be late.’

  Sam put the phone down immediately on that injunction. That was the best thing about this trade. It was the seller, not the buyer, who called the shots.

  ‘It’s probably nothing, but I thought I should be on the safe side.’

  Bert Hook nodded seriously. He gave no sign that he had heard this apologetic introduction a hundred times before as he said, ‘You did the right thing. It’s always as well to be on the safe side.’

  ‘I live on my own, you see, and things tend to get out of proportion when you’ve no one to discuss them with.’

  ‘I’m sure they do, Ms—?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have said. Sue Charles is the name.’

  He wrote the name down on the sheet in front of him, then smiled encouragingly and said, ‘Not Sue Charles the writer?’

  She was absurdly pleased, despite herself. After all these years, it was still a thrill to be recognized. It didn’t happen very often. She said, ‘Yes, that’s me. I’m surprised you know it – especially as a policeman.’

  Hook smiled again, his weather-beaten, outdoor features exuding reassurance. ‘My wife is an addict of the detective novel. She speaks highly of your work. Library copies of Sue Charles appear regularly on our bedside table. She’ll be impressed to hear I’ve spoken to you.’

  Sue tried not to show her almost childish joy in the compliment. ‘That’s nice to hear. Sometimes when you’re wrestling with some writing problem, you wonder if anyone actually reads your books.’

  Bert gave no sign of his rising impatience. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t be published if they didn’t. What can I do for you, Ms Charles?’

  ‘It’s Mrs, actually. But I’m a widow now. Well, as I said, this is probably a waste of your time. It’s probably nothing more than mischief.’

  ‘Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that, Mrs Charles. It’s part of my job to decide what is trivial and what might be more serious.’

  ‘Yes. Well then, I’d be very glad of your opinion on this.’ She opened her hand bag and produced the letter she had discovered on the previous evening. ‘I put it back into the envelope it was delivered in. My – my fingerprints will be on it from when I first opened it. I’ve worn gloves to handle it ever since then. I expect you’ll think that’s very over the top – I suppose it comes from being a crime writer.’

  Bert shook his head and said very seriously, ‘On the contrary, I wish all members of the public would be so careful when handling what might eventually become evidence. You did exactly the right thing, Mrs Charles, just as you did the right thing in bringing this straight to us.’

  ‘Thank you. I live alone now, you see – well, alone except for Roland, my cat.’

  Bert stared at the single sheet on his desk with its stark message and threat. ‘When did you receive this?’

  ‘Yesterday. I found it in the early evening, when I was about to have my meal. But it could have been dropped through the letter box at any time during the afternoon. I was working on my latest book in my study, you see.’

  ‘You didn’t hear or see anything?’

  ‘No. My study’s at the back of the house. I don’t even hear the post arriving, unless it contains something particularly heavy. All I can say with certainty is that it must have been dropped
through the letter box some time between one p.m. and seven p.m.’

  DS Hook went over to the dispenser at the end of the CID section and donned a pair of thin plastic medical gloves. He examined the printing of the words on the sheet of paper and then held it up to the light, holding it gingerly by its bottom corner. ‘No watermark on the paper. Standard issue A4 printing paper, sold all over the country for use with home printers, I’m afraid. And it will be difficult if not impossible to pin this with any certainty to a particular computer. The days of typewriters, which were almost as individual as fingerprints, are long gone, I’m afraid.’

  Sue Charles gave her first smile since she had come into the room. ‘I know. A great boon to crime writers, the old typewriters were. We have to be much more ingenious now than in the good old days, the so-called golden age of the detective novel.’

  Bert grinned. ‘I grew up with Dorothy L. Sayers and Agatha Christie as a teenager in a Barnardo’s home. The library wasn’t very up to date. For some reason, the people there thought murder was good safe reading for impressionable adolescents.’

  ‘Perhaps they did make an impression. You became a policeman.’

  ‘Yes. And eventually a detective, of sorts. I never thought there was a connection, though. I think the people who ran the home simply thought that a safe, steady job in the police represented a success for one of their lads.’

  ‘Perhaps they were right. I should think you’re much better at handling worried ladies of sixty-eight than most policemen.’

  ‘Two things, Mrs Charles. First, sixty-eight is no great age nowadays and you’re obviously in full possession of all your faculties. Secondly, you weren’t alarmist in coming to the police station today. You did exactly the right thing. We take threats like this very seriously. This almost certainly came either from some idiot who thinks it’s a good joke or from someone with a warped imagination who wants to give you a little scare. Either way, the probability is that the sender intends to do nothing further.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Whoever sent this has already given me a sleepless night.’